<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Nathaniel Sewell’s Last One-Night Stand by wearwind</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26250625">Nathaniel Sewell’s Last One-Night Stand</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearwind/pseuds/wearwind'>wearwind</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Adam is Not Impressed, Angst, F/M, Not Very Explicit but Still NSFW, Reader is Not Detective</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 02:55:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,699</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26250625</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearwind/pseuds/wearwind</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>This has not been your idea, but you weren’t opposed to it either.  There was a man, your cousin said, a man she worked with, a tall, dark and handsome fellow. And he was apparently lonely enough to make a move on her.</p><p>Or the last time Nathaniel Sewell tried to live through a one-night stand.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell/Other(s), Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Nathaniel Sewell’s Last One-Night Stand</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/evil_bunny_king/gifts">evil_bunny_king</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>This has not been your idea, but you weren’t opposed to it either. Your cousin – your smarter, cooler, more successful cousin, with her shady government job and a frankly shadier personal secret – has dropped a few hints during a Sunday get-together, and once you switched seats with Aunt Evelyn to actually listen to the whole story, you were </span>
  <em>
    <span>interested. </span>
  </em>
  <span>There was a man, your cousin said, a man she worked with, a tall, dark and handsome fellow. And he was apparently lonely enough to make a move on her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At which you sniggered, because there was a </span>
  <em>
    <span>reason </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jennifer worked a job that had her arms rippling through her corduroy jacket sleeves like overgrown zucchinis. Not something to bring up at the table, but you’ve read enough sweaty paperbacks to have an idea of her scandalous big-city lifestyle. Still, Jennifer said, she liked the man well enough, and it would be a </span>
  <em>
    <span>shame</span>
  </em>
  <span> for such a gentle fellow to stay alone. And weren’t you </span>
  <em>
    <span>way </span>
  </em>
  <span>overdue a visit at hers, anyway?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so on the next long weekend you find yourself in the big city, on your way to a brightly lit disco where crowds of hippies jostle their flowery garlands and overgrown hair, en route to meet one Nathaniel Sewell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“See you in the morning,” Jennifer says with a wink as she rolls the car window back up, and you smirk at it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He insisted on meeting you in a </span>
  <em>
    <span>restaurant </span>
  </em>
  <span>before dancing</span>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You hope he won’t get the wrong idea.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You find him without an issue: </span>
  <em>
    <span>head sticking out of the crowd like a sore thumb, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jennifer said, and it’s accurate enough. He’s— easy on the eyes, tawny but pale enough to pass for a white man, and it’s not like you were planning on bringing him home to think too much about it. His hair falls past his shoulders, hippie-style, but it looks soft and well-kept. A nice surprise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His voice is even nicer when he compliments you – rich and deep and vaguely foreign.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You wonder what he does, in that shady government job that seems to make Jennifer broader and broader every year. Obviously he’s not carrying the same sacks of bricks – his body is more limbs than man, gangly legs spread out in front of him with a shaggy sort of grace. He’s got a soft-spoken manner, well-measured syllables of his unidentifiable twang punctuated by charming smiles. Though it’s somehow undercut by how obviously tense he is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you passionate about?” he asks with something like longing, swirling the wine he’s ordered for the both of you, and you do a double-take. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh,” you say, clearing your throat, “never thought about it. Music, maybe?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see,” he says, bright and delighted, as if you’ve given him a great gift. He latches onto the subject greedily. “One of the greatest past-times of humanity. I adore music too. What’s your favourite genre?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh,” you say again, “Not sure. I just like— er, dancing music?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He deflates a little. But then those lovely honey-brown eyes light up again, determined. “I’d be delighted to take you dancing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You smile, back in the familiar territory. “Just dancing?” you ask, a sultry note in your voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s more than one kind of dancing,” he tells you in a smooth, silky tone, and a pleasant shiver runs down your back. As intent as he seems to be on continuing with the awkward conversation,  it’s looking like the evening still has a lot of potential. Even though – and that’s a fairly big </span>
  <em>
    <span>even though </span>
  </em>
  <span>– he still chatters on about the history of the disco, waxing poetic about nightclubs and their exciting energy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least he’s not gay, you tell yourself as you pick at your steak, tuning out the words until they’re just a pleasant murmur in your ear. Although you could imagine a few things to put that mouth to a better use.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stops, and you raise your eyes to meet his. There’s a gentle expectation there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ah, </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit </span>
  </em>
  <span>- he’s asked a question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Er,” you say. Lukewarm silence stretches between you, and something flickers out in his eyes. You suddenly become very aware he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows </span>
  </em>
  <span>you haven’t even heard him. Still he holds your gaze, as if keen on giving you the chance to at least graciously pretend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m-- not sure,” you say lamely, and drop your eyes down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a brief moment of quiet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I like books,” he says, and you can hear the edge of desperation in his voice. “I’ve been collecting them for a while. Not really enough space where I live to really get them out of storage, but my dream is to get a whole library for them, something to let them breathe. Goodness knows I’ve got enough to fill it.” A pause as his tone evens out, overtaken by something more controlled. “How about you? Do you have any dreams you’d like fulfilled?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You think about it and smile. He beams back at you, relief tucked into the crinkles of his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve been looking at some cool new Chevrolets,” you say. “My car right now is pretty beat, but if I do some overtime at the store, I could probably get a loan. That’d be cool. Those beasts go </span>
  <em>
    <span>fast.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His grin grows strained. You stare back, uncomfortable, and try to think what’s wrong </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unless you misread, and that had been the set-up to something more flirty. You’re more than happy to accommodate. “But I can also think of a few easier dreams to fulfill,” you say, throwing your hair back, lips rising into a more provocative smirk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He draws a breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he smiles again, and it has an odd, resigned quality to it. “So can I,” he says. “We could see if they match. Shall we get the bill?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You voice your agreement with great relief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It gets smoother from there. You walk to the disco club nearby, and the swirl of colours and alcohol inside makes it easy to tune out the awkwardness, now that he can’t attempt to hold a conversation through the noise. He’s a good dancer, with an impeccable sense of rhythm; after a few songs, he tunes into your movements in an effortless way that belies his previous fumbling. His body is warm, hands steady around yours, and with the way the music and hubbub of human interaction washes over the pair of you he seems to relax as well.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>So: a shy guy, terrible with words, but good with his body. Perfect. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It’s what you wanted, even with the awkward start.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tilts you into a sudden dip, so low your hair sweeps the floor, and both of you laugh breathlessly. He looks positively </span>
  <em>
    <span>ravishing </span>
  </em>
  <span>when he does that, you think, long fluttering lashes outlining dark eyes, the tendons of his neck straining over where his collarbone peeks out of a button-down shirt. You want to kiss him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So you do.      </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smells of wine and oak, something earthy and lovely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then it’s the matter of making it into the bed before either of you gets arrested for public indecency. Thankfully he’s had the sense to rent a room in a hotel nearby; you hardly see it, caught up in the other </span>
  <em>
    <span>creative </span>
  </em>
  <span>ways he kisses you as you climb the stairs to the fourth floor, your progress getting more and more staggered until it feels like that would be it-- you’d just rip your clothes off next to the railing and have him right there. On the final flight of stairs, he swears under his breath - something tame and adorable - and hooks his elbow under your knees to scoop you clean off the stairs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That way,” he murmurs by the way of explanation, his breathing heavier from the kisses than any physical effort, “we can kiss while we walk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You giggle into his mouth. It’s a rush - mindless, swirling, thoroughly enjoyable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You owe Jennifer one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t let you go even as you finally stagger through the threshold of the room, the lock clicking behind you in deliciously clipped anticipation. Instead he sits down on the bed himself, cradling you tight to his chest in a gesture as tender as it is-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>odd,</span>
  </em>
  <span> and slowing you down, breaking the intoxicating momentum. You try to wiggle out of his arms to straddle him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait,” he says, breathlessly, his eyes fluttering closed as if he’s diving back into his own body. You frown at his expression. “Let’s just-- breathe it in. You and me here, and we’re alive, and here together. And we </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be here together. Isn’t this-- can you imagine anything better?...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” you purr and reach for the buttons of his shirt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lets you, fingers shivering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s little conversation left, and little shyness. He doesn’t look much older than you - some unidentifiable early thirties to your twenty-few - but he feels it, both in the purposeful lines of his body and the way he guides you, gently but surely, to how he wants to be touched. Not his first rodeo, and not yours either. Something about it fills you with bone-deep satisfaction -- there is no doubt as to why you’re here, two bodies brushing against each other in a dark room. The yellow neon ads shine through the curtainless window, a square of light on the floor next to the bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nathaniel,” you whisper, just to try it out. He shivers over you, face almost pained in the shadows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nate,” he says, pleadingly. “Just-- Nate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nate,” you say and are graced by a sigh, his hips stuttering in their rhythm, lips dragging across your collarbone. The tension grows, builds, and you sink your teeth into his shoulder and are shocked as he jolts, violently, and stills --</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So good?” you tease breathlessly. “You like pain, pretty boy?” With that, you feign to bite him again, and his hand clenches on your chin to stop it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His voice is hard and tense, like a string wound to a breaking point. “Don’t do that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You wiggle your eyebrows, playful. You’ve seen men scared of their own desires before, especially if they seemed to unman them. “Why not?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I--” You watch the tight column of his throat shiver as he swallows hard, withdrawing, and a vague guilt descends on you. He means it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” you say. “Why don’t you bite me in return?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>No,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” he snaps, and now his entire body lurches away from you. You watch with wide eyes as he scrambles to sit up on the side of the bed, the line of his back curling down, hand tight on the both sides of his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes a while before he turns back to you again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” he says softly, eyes pleading, desperate, searching for something in your face you have no idea how to find. You sink away from him. “I just… can you forgive me this weakness I have?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks -- distraught.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You purse your lips. And it’s been going so </span>
  <em>
    <span>well--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But you can’t exactly leave him like this, as little intention as you have to coddle your one-night stand. You put a hand against his thigh, and wearing your best comforting tone, you say, “It’s okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes your scrap of comfort with earnest gratitude that makes you slightly ill, the earlier feeling from the restaurant returning strong. His hand covers yours, and the mattress creaks as he eases himself back against your body. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Shukran,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” he murmurs. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Shukran ktir.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You consider asking him what it means, then decide it doesn’t matter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> It doesn’t last much longer than that. You’re still hot and bothered, shivering from his thorough attention, and he seems to be driven with some desperate, yearning energy that buries him inside you ever deeper; as if what he </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>wanted was to dig underneath your skin and pour himself whole into the space he’s made, a thought as intimate as it is disturbing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You like it. And you want more. You’re not interested in the bookworm, or a guy trying to make conversation about music. You want to see the rough side of him, the nails, the teeth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bite me,” you whisper between obscene sounds. “Scratch me, bite me, hurt me. You know you want to-- come on. Come on, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nate, </span>
  </em>
  <span>come on-- please--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gives a full-body shudder, a broken sound falling from his lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If you’d be any more interested in studying him, you’d see the raw anguish on his face. But your eyes are closed shut, obscenities spilling out of your mouth, mind focused only on what’s coming - and you can </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel </span>
  </em>
  <span>it, you can feel it in your curling toes and tensing thighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grazes his teeth very lightly against your neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It could be that, or it could be the thrill of victory - but the world explodes in a burst of white.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes some time to come down, and he’s a gracious cuddler - not unexpected but welcome, now that you’re feeling blissfully sated and more magnanimous for it. Your back is nestled against his chest, and you can’t see his face; all the better for it. Because it is ashen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before you slip out of the room, smiling giddily against the afterglow still flooding your veins, you pass him the number to your landline.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you ever want to go dancing again,” you say with a wink. “If my mother picks up, say you’re a friend of Jennifer’s, alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He seems to have reverted to his earlier self. It takes a long moment for his eyes to course between the slip of paper and your face. Then, with some effort, he smiles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” he says softly. “I hope you had a good time tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pretty good, yeah!” you say, grinning, and skip down the hotel stairs. Perhaps there was something to be said about big-city boys. Next time, you’d skip the meal and go straight to dancing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You </span>
  <em>
    <span>owe </span>
  </em>
  <span>your cousin big time. Then again, it was a favour for her in the first place, so maybe it’s evened out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*** </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The clock in the communal kitchen strikes four in the morning. There’s some hubbub in the underground HQ - many agents are nocturnal by nature, and many others by preference - but this kitchen, small and yellow and faintly smelling of cleaning products, is still and empty. Nate leans over the table on his elbows, face hidden in his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steps sound through the corridor, growing closer until a door creaks open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Adam doesn’t say anything. Briskly, he makes mugs cups of strong tea and wordlessly sets one in front of Nate. Then, his own lips tight, he waits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t need to hear it,” Nate says eventually. His voice is broken. “Whatever it is that you need to say… not tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Adam is silent, the only sound in the room the clock’s incessant ticking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After entirely too long a time, Nate shifts to pick up the tea. As his palms come down, his eyes are dull and expressionless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You did that to yourself,” Adam says, his tone flat. Not cruel, but not gentle either. “I warned you.”</span>
</p><p><span>Nate looks up to him. A hollow smile tugs at his lip. “It’s like you’ve never even been</span> <span>human in the first place.”</span></p><p>
  <span>“Maybe I wasn’t,” Adam says. “But the fact is that I am not. And you’re not either.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nate’s grip on the mug tightens. “It’s not wrong to seek this kind of intimacy. And I wanted to-- I needed--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then the tension drains out of him. “It doesn’t matter. You were right. It was a foolish thing to do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” Adam weighs the clipped word in his hands before setting it down on Nate’s shoulder. The man sags under Adam’s touch, curling forward as if in pain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not naive, Nate,” Adam says, and his voice grows fainter. “So why do you keep doing that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nate cranes his head up, and suddenly his empty eyes are hard. “You </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>why.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Adam sucks in a breath. Then lets it out, and the argument sizzles out before it ignites.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The arms of the clock turn to five, then six. They drink their tea in silence, the night unravelling before them. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>... I blame bunny. That's all.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>